Expectations
by Random Guise
Summary: Miss Jane Marple had always been of sharp mind and was a keen observer of both detail and character. Too bad her skills have suffered in her later years, poor girl. I've never read any of the books but I've seen many of the different filmed stories. I don't own this character, and the only thing I've killed is a hearty appetite.


**A/N: One of Agatha Christie's great detectives, Miss Jane Marple finds herself in a mystery she can't solve - or can she?**

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Expectations

"I'm sorry dear, but I wish I could remember for you" Jane Marple apologized. "I'm afraid I don't quite remember who it was."

DCI Sarah Quirn furrowed her brows. "But you're sure it was a murder?"

"Oh yes, most definitely. I've been around quite a few murders in my time, Detective. Ask anyone in your department."

"No need, ma'am. Your reputation for helping the department is legendary; I don't think I have a supervisor who hasn't worked with you in some capacity. So you don't know who it was, but you're sure the victim died from the fall?"

"Oh, I'm sure of it. The man...at least I think it was a man...couldn't have survived the fall. All that way off the bridge onto a passing ship; I don't see how he could have survived. Wait...I'm sure now! It _was_ a man." Miss Marple seemed relieved at the fact, the gender of the person no longer in question. "He had a beard. At least I think it was real - it could have been a disguise I suppose."

"So let's start with the victim. You're pretty sure he was a man with a beard. Was he young?"

"Heaven's no; he was older, although I have to say probably still a bit younger than me. I think his face might have looked older. Unless it was a disguise; come to think of it, I just got the _impression_ he was an older man but I can't say that he was."

"I see. Was he thin? Heavy?"

"He was bundled up in a coat, so I couldn't tell. He might have had several layers on for all I know. Since I've gotten older I know sometimes I have to bundle up so much..."

A constable entered the room with a cup of tea, which he handed to Miss Marple. "Thank you, Geoffrey" the older woman said as the officer smiled and departed.

Quirn scribbled a note. "What color coat?"

"Dark."

"Dark isn't a color. Brown, blue, black maybe?"

"I don't know, I wasn't really looking at the coat as he fell. Would you?"

"I don't suppose so. How about his height?"

"He was taller than me, but that's not saying much. I imagine when you find out who he is then the records will have his height recorded."

"We can hope. And there was no one else around that you saw?"

"No one around; of that I am certain. I had to cross the bridge to find someone to call the police. It took quite some time; I don't get around quite as well as I used to, you know." She took a sip of her tea. "Just right; your Geoffrey makes the perfect cup."

"Let's try something different. Why was he killed?" Quirn asked.

"Oh, I imagine because he did something horrible; isn't that the usual reason? It's been my experience that victims are usually killed when the perpetrator feels wronged or slighted in some manner; it's the way of the world I"m afraid."

"I agree, Miss Marple. But what was this horrible thing that he did that caused him to deserve to die?"

"It must have been something awful" Marple said in a lowered voice. "I mean, you just don't _kill_ someone because they looked at you oddly. One simply doesn't do that sort of thing. It isn't civilized."

"I would hope not," Quirn was quick to agree "but it still doesn't get us anywhere on motive. Now you say he landed on a ship - what type of ship was it?"

"Heavens, how would I know? I'm not in the Sea Service!"

"No Miss Marple, of course you're not. But was it a passenger ship, a tanker, did it have cargo on top, was it a ferry or maybe a sailboat? There are a lot of different types of craft that cross under that bridge."

"I know; I've spent many an hour watching them. Such serenity" Marple said as she trailed off.

As patiently as she could, Quirn asked again. "So...a big ship?"

"I suppose; it was bigger than a sailboat, definitely bigger than that. It was longer than it was wide, does that help?"

"I think they all are, but thank you for the information. Which direction was it going?"

"Away from the bridge."

"I think we can establish that, unless it was docked directly under the bridge. But was it going seaward or inland? If we can find out which boat is was, it would be enormously helpful."

"What a terrible shame, I can't remember. I do so get turned around sometimes! I wonder if I could trouble you for a cup of tea?" Marple asked.

DCI Quirn looked at the kindly face, then at the cup sitting in her hands. "Have you finished that one yet?"

"Oh dear, how embarrassing! With all the excitement I completely forgot I was holding one. No dear, this will be fine thank you."

"Very good. So let's summarize what we know: A man who was probably a man unless he wasn't has been murdered. The victim's height fell between slightly short to tall and he was somewhere between thin and heavyset, and he wore a dark coat. He had a beard unless it was false, and he was older unless it was makeup. There were no other witnesses to the event. He fell from the bridge onto a passing boat or ship that was going either upriver or down, and was larger than a sailboat...and it was longer than it was wide" the detective added, nodding to Marple who smiled back. "Does that sound about right?"

"Yes, I do believe you've got it" Marple responded. "I know I've spent most of my life dealing with very definite and sometimes seemingly insignificant facts Detective, but I simply can't give you information I can't remember or didn't notice. I'm dreadfully sorry if I've fallen short of your expectations."

"May I be honest with you, Miss Marple? I really don't see how you could have killed a man. We seem to be lacking a victim, a body or even a motive. As for ability itself, I don't wish to be disrespectful but you are...quite experienced in years and not as spry as I'm sure you once were. You're how old again?"

"Eighty-one. Eighty-two in eleven months."

"And as long as you are able to get along with that cane, I'm sure we at the department can expect many more years of help from you. But unless something comes up that substantiates your claim, I'm afraid that I shall just have to leave the case open. If you remember anything else, you won't hesitate to call will you?"

"Gracious no, I'll ring around the first opportunity if I remember something. Do you need me to do anything else for now?" she asked, looking hopeful.

"No, I think I have all the details I can" she said, turning off the tape that had been recording the conversation. "Perhaps we'll be in contact soon."

"Oh, I do hope so" Marple said as she set the tea aside and grabbed her cane to stand. "You have my contact information I trust."

"We certainly do. Would you like Geoffrey to see you out?" The constable stood nearby in case he was needed after hearing the interview wind down.

"Thank you, yes."

As the young man led Marple through the office and front door, Quirn considered the older woman. "Probably seen too many cases and has gotten them mixed up as though they happened to her" she thought as she took the tape and flipped it into the back of a bottom drawer. "Poor girl."

Out on the street, Miss Marple walked down the pavement with her cane, studying the sky. Raised with the notion that a lady simply didn't whistle, she tried anyway. After all, a lady wasn't supposed to kill either. But Alfred Barker, 56, all 5' 10" and 12 stone of him was really a distasteful man who had killed several townspeople already. It was good riddance to bad rubbish as he plummeted down into the smokestack of the seabound Majesty, right on schedule on it's itinerary to foreign markets.

Of course the hard part had been timing it right so that the spring-loaded knife in the bottom of her cane took him by surprise and knocked him over the railing, but it was nothing for someone who had an eye for detail and a sharp mind that could plan all the details. Including a cover of feebleness such that no one would believe even an attempt to confess; pretending to not remember she already had a cup of tea in her hands was certainly a clever touch. Her conscience clear, she continued on back toward her home in St. Mary Mead all the while thinking ahead in planning her noonday meal.

The End

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**A/N: I wrote a story for Midsomer Murders that had to do with a confession as well, but I wanted to try something a little different and not the same route Hercule Poirot took.**


End file.
